Chaos Theory
by Elandil
Summary: The discovery of a girl bleeding out in the street is the spark that drags a certain consulting duo into a world of lies and crime as they unknowingly race to unearth the truth about her past before it comes to find them, with explosive results. But how do you find the truth when the one hiding it is something so very far beyond anything you have faced before? Re-write of Amnesia!


Laying, spread eagle on her bed, Valkyrie could probably have passed for a corpse at first glance. Her pale skin stood in sharp contrast to her dark covers, and her eyes stared blankly up at the stone grey ceiling, not even twitching at the sharp ticks coming from the hallway. Despite the external apathy however, the inside of her mind could be compared to a war zone.

Disjointed images flashed past, almost too fast to be registered, collections of sensations practically falling over each other as they tried to steal her full attention. It was disorientating, and though, to a normal person, such chaos would have been enough to drive them mad, with the youthful detective, it did little more than make her sigh, though the conclusion of this mess was abundantly clear to her.

Valkyrie Cain _hated_ dimensional shunters with a passion.

Through her many, many years working for (and seemingly just as often _against_ ) the Irish sanctuary, she had been forced into fighting many unique opponents... some of whom were practically immortal... but never, in her experience, had she found another type of fighter that could be even half as annoying as those she had faced the night before.

How were you supposed to combat something that could vanish from in front of you and appear behind you only a split second later, remain there just long enough to stab you in the back, and then fade back into thin air? It was like chasing after a ghost armed with nothing but a butterfly net, pointless, exhausting and one of the _worst_ ideas Skulduggery Pleasant had ever had...

Ignoring the brief flare of pain from her barely healed abdomen with well practised ease, the seemingly 17 year old detective forced herself into a sitting position before checking her watch again with a groan. She had roughly 20 minutes before her insane partner would show up to drag her off on what ever insane stunt he had thought up for tonight.

With loose, easy motions she slipped out of her comfortable night clothes and all but climbed into her normal work clothes, the leather so worn in that it was practically moulded to her body, fitting her like a second skin. It was one of the only reasons she had to be glad that she had stopped ageing after her 17 birthday, there would never again be a tailor as skilful as Ghastly Bespoke had been.

10 minutes later, she found herself back on her bed, teeth freshly brushed and short hair clipped back severely to keep it out of her eyes (she remembered the time when she had been able to leave it long and loose without having to worry about it being used against her in a fight... those were the days) however, no sooner had she bent to begin lacing up her boot than she froze in place. At first, she could not be sure what it was that made her stop, her instincts had just demanded that she pay attention to something. But then she had felt it...

Cold yet scorching at the same time, a dull ache had begun to supersede the pain that had already been lancing out of the wound in her stomach from the night before, the prior pain having hidden the new sensation until it was strong enough to be a real cause for concern. She had noticed the night before that there had been something off with the wound when the normal means of healing had not completely removed it, but she had disregarded this, wanting only to collapse into the warm embrace of her bed. Oh how she was regretting it now.

Although she had only ever felt this particular sensation once before in her life (and that had been a long time ago) it was not one that should would ever forget. Unbidden, the image of Elrik Corrow, smirking manically down at her as he plunged the burning poker into her gut sprung to mind, it looked like his confidence then had been more than just the foolishness she had written it off for at the time. She should probably look into some form of revenge when she got back from where ever it was she was headed... but it was unlikely that he would still be alive by then. Such a pity.

Moving carefully so as not to disturb her injury any more, she could just feel the blood beginning to seep out of the re-opened wound, Valkyrie slowly began an inventory of what she had on her, being sure to remove anything that might be seen as incriminating in the dimension she was heading to. Unfortunately, by the time she was finished this, she was left with a depressingly small list of items on her person, and a burning pain racing through her circulatory system.

Deciding that it would probably be better to lay down before she fell over, she slowly lowered herself back onto the bed and spread out again as she awaited the inevitable conclusion of the crescendo in her blood, her eyes falling shut as the pain spiked to a new peak.

Absently, she wondered how Skulduggery would react when he reached her apartment only to realise that she wasn't there... she should probably have taken the time to leave a note for him. Still, before she could really think too much on the subject, something in her mind gave a vicious _twist_ and everything went black.

~~~~~~~~~8~~~~~~~~~

"So it really was just a suicide then?"

A sharp jolt of irritation flashed through him, jarring as a knife before it was quickly, and brutally crushed back into the normal rank of apathy, though none of this was visible on the outside. Instead, Sherlock merely spun on the spot, his great coat flaring out dramatically behind him as he went to leave the room, only to find John leaning against the door, a stubborn set to his chin and his patented 'play nice' look, forcing the detective to turn back to the Inspector.

"Yes Inspector, I do believe that is exactly the conclusion I just offered to you. As I previously stated, the victim allowed himself to fall too deep into the world of drugs and gambling where he ran up a tremendous debt with the wrong people. Deciding that it would be better to kill himself then submit to their wrath, he took the gun and ended his own life. Dull. Ordinary, and a waste of my time.

Quite frankly, if the team of dolts you work with could not put together the fact that the ring clearly slipped out of his pocket as he fell, they don't deserve their jobs on the force, maybe you should think about hiring some more competent staff in the future."

Sure that Lestrade was about to comment on that parting line, much as he had done every other time Sherlock had made a similar insinuation, the consulting detective went to leave again. He had no desire to stand there for a lecture when he was surely going to get one back at the flat anyway. However, before he could take more than a couple of steps towards the clearly disapproving army doctor who still blocked his path, said man was forced to stumble forwards as the door was all but slammed open by a flustered sergeant Donovan.

"Sir, we have a problem."

Sherlock did nothing to restrain his irritation this time. Really, why did she have to say that? There was clearly a problem, seeing as though she had run all the way from the front door, up three flights of stairs, and to the back of the block of flats, at a full on sprint, judging from her accelerated gasps and dilated pupils. Still, he had found from experience that most people liked to point out the obvious, a pointless endeavour that only served to waste time, it was one of those matters he honestly could not understand. Still, seeing her flustered face he couldn't help adding another jab to wind her up even further. After all, annoying the members of the force, bar Lestrade, was one of his 'more normal hobbies' as John liked to call it.

"Honestly, Anderson forgetting which way round to hold a scalpel _again_ is not what I would call a problem!"

Unsurprisingly, his comment was ignored by the two officers in front of him, though he could feel John's glare cutting into the side of his head even from this distance, honestly, sometimes it was difficult to see the doctor in John behind all the force and silent aggression of the soldier. Still, he was vaguely interested as to what had caused the normally unflappable officer's so apparent distress so, for once, he said nothing and allowed her to finish her explanation, though he was still irritated about the unnecessary dramatics, as he always would be.

"Sir, some civilians just came up to grab one of our men, they said that they found a teenage girl in an alleyway just down the road, they think she was stabbed, and not that long ago too."

The change in the inspector was as immediate as it was obvious. The old police man had always been over protective of other people, a completely unnecessary sentiment in Sherlock's eyes and one that could only make his job as a homicide detective all the more difficult, but it was so deeply instilled in the older man's nature that it wouldn't be him without it. This protectiveness, it seemed, was incredibly strong when it came to young girls, as could be seen through the tense set of his jaw and the strange light flickering in his eyes, probably a throw back from some archaic sense of chivalry, or lingering paternal instinct from when his own children were young... probably a combination of the two actually. Still the consulting detective marvelled for a split second at the sheer depth of emotion his colleague was showing towards a complete stranger, not long after, Lestrade was running full pelt out of the building and, having nothing better to do, Sherlock followed.

It took about 5 minutes for all of them to reach the place where the girl was being treated by the forensics team, all of whom seemed to be rather out of their depth treating a breathing patient which was rather amusing, what did that say about your life when you could diagnose a cause of death in a manner of minutes, but couldn't stop someone from dying in the first place? However, as they drew closer, his eyes were instantly drawn to the victim, his mind soaking in all he could find out about her from the first cursory glance. Though curiously, the torrent of information he normally received when looking at someone was oddly subdued with this girl, the clues to her life much less obvious than with the others around him.

Short, dark hair, fair skin though it bore a light tan that was fading from an extended period away from the sun, looked to be of European origin and, judging from the cut of her clothes, was from some money, whether that was legitimate or not was something he couldn't tell with the limited data. The clothes themselves were black mainly, with a deep red on the sleeves, all of it with the sheen of high quality leather, but it looked to fit her body like it was made for her, so either it was, or she had worn them often enough for the material to mould to her body shape. Probably the first option as there were no signs of wear on the material which was rather strange given the situation they had found her in. Surely there must have been some sign of defensive wounds somewhere on the material? Her arms at least should have been scuffed from the fall...

From her face, he would guess that she was around 17/18 but curiously, she wore no make up, unusual given the pressure current society placed on women to make themselves more 'attractive' to the opposite sex. This, coupled with the numerous, though faded, scars all over her visible skin and the practicality of her clothes that covered a large percentage of her body suggested that she was a tom boy, more interested in being comfortable than looking good, despite the fact that she was what people like John would call 'classically beautiful'. Again, the multitude of scars and bruising on her collar bones that could be see through the front of her unzipped jacket, would suggest that she was used to fending for her self, which made the lack of defensive wounds all the more obvious... someone who was used to fights, but didn't defend herself when someone went to stab her... such an interesting paradox.

It was around this point that he realised that John was talking to him, cutting into his train of thought and disrupting his focus. Damn it, he was just beginning to pick apart this girl. The Doctor really did posses the worst timing when he felt like it.

"Sherlock, I don't think that they need us here, after all, the girl is still alive, I don't think they will need any help when she can tell them who it was that gave her that."

Sherlock followed the doctor's waving hand and saw the blood that was soaking through her crimson shirt underneath her jacket, hard to see at first glance due to the colours being practically identical in shade. Probably done on purpose going on what else he had seen of her character. Did that meant that she knew this was going to happen?

She knew that she was going to be fighting tonight, that much was obvious, she had dressed for it after all, but then, why hadn't she fought back? That was the main question that was irritating him about this girl, he really did not like having unanswered questions. Turning back to his friend, Sherlock looked the man up and down, taking in his pale face and the edgy way his eyes were flashing from person to person. There was an injured girl on the floor, not 2 feet in front of him, and John was still stood in the same spot as he had been in when they arrived when he, as a trauma surgeon, was probably the best qualified person in the area to be treating her. That wasn't normal especially not when he considered how much of a bleeding heart his flatmate normally was.

There was something off in the ex-captain's bearing... for once, John seemed to be truly unbalanced, and his eyes seemed unable to focus on the girl for longer than a few seconds at a time, though his gaze was inevitably drawn back to her once again... so there was something about the child that made John uncomfortable... not the girl herself, but a resemblance maybe? Perhaps she reminded him of someone else, and he was trying not to imagine said person in the girl's place... or maybe he had seen a similar scene and the images were trying to overlap? Both were interesting theories, but without further data they were just meaningless speculation.

"John, you are the only one here qualified to work with living patients, so why is it that you are still standing with me when there is an injured girl unconscious over there?"

His words seemed to make the man jump, as though pulling him from his own thoughts. Ah, sweet revenge. But that didn't answer his question, so the thought did not stay long in his mind before it was deleted. When he answered, John refused to look him in the eye… so he was lying then.

"No reason, I just don't think I'm needed, the girl is already drowning in doctors, its not like I'm going to make much of a differ… my god, are those burn marks?"

In his attempt to avoid the detective's probing eyes, it seemed as though he had looked directly at the girl just as one of the forensics team rolled up her top to reveal the wound to her stomach. Interested now, Sherlock looked over and studied the wound. Yes, they were burn marks, it looked as though the blade that had been used to do this was red hot at the time… so the attack was premeditated? Probably, seeing as though she arrived prepared for a fight, a challenge maybe, but then, wouldn't she have taken more precautions, brought someone with her for back up? To heat a weapon to the extent where it could cause that much damage and those marks would have taken time, but why were there no defensive marks, or any signs of restraints? It was a question that was honestly driving him insane now.

Without realising it, Sherlock edged closer to the girl, trying to get a better look at the wound. There was no tears, so it was sharp and, from the width of the cut, thin. But from the shape, it wasn't a knife, the wounded edges meant that it was cylindrical, interesting. A fire poker perhaps? But then, someone would have seen a person carrying around that sort of object in the back streets of London, it was far too obvious and would stick in people's memories, not something to take to a place where you planned on killing someone, but then, what else could have made those marks?.. Unless this was only the secondary crime scene and she had been carried out here? But for what purpose? Dropping the girl off so close to where the police were already investigating something was like calling for them to look into this... surely the perpetrator couldn't be that stupid? Or did they want the police involved in this?

Somehow, he found himself next to Lestrade as the ambulance drove away, a little upset at the loss of his puzzle, Sherlock turned back to the police officer, a strange light flickering behind his eyes.

"Seems like a bad area, first a suicide, then a back alley fight, all in one night. You might want to look into this sector more Inspector."

That seemed to bring Lestrade up short as he blinked up at the detective for a few seconds before answering.

"How do you know it was a fight? The guys that examined her thought it was a mugging, she had nothing in her pockets, no bag. Unfortunately, she didn't have any ID either…"

He trailed off there when he noticed the incredulous look being directed at him by the consultant.

"She was dressed for a fight. I'm willing to bet that that jacket gave a lot of protection to her upper body and the trousers to the lower. What bothers me is that there was no hole in the shirt, which means that she must have changed it before passing out, but why do that and not bandage the wound? and why have the jacket unzipped when it would reduce the protection around her vital organs? It just doesn't make any sense!"

For a moment, the Inspector seemed to contemplate that idea before shrugging slightly.

"Just give it a rest Sherlock. This isn't your case, it isn't any case. As soon as the girl wakes up, she can tell us what happened and everything is over with, simple as that."

That said he started to walk away, heading back in the general direction of his police car, and Sherlock let him go. No, the girl was not his case, but he got the impression that, soon, she would be.

* * *

 **A/N: So there is the first chapter of the re-vamped amnesia... I hope you enjoyed it. The storyline will pretty much echo the original story, but with a few minor (and one major) differences. If you have any ideas of what you want to see in this story, or anything you think could be added to any of the chapters as I re-work them, feel free to let me know. Other than that, I will see you next time!**

 **Ella.**


End file.
